Warstuck
by azseanster
Summary: A story of the Homestuck characters set in WWII, the first story of a set of 3 or 4. If you wish to contact me directly (as I update the ship quicker on another site), send an email to and I'll send you the other link. But all chapters will eventually be added to , so enjoy!
1. Chapter 1 - The Day That Lives in Infamy

Jade Egbert Harley strode across the deck of the U.S.S. Arizona as though she owned it, clipboard tight in hand, fingers bearing odd multi-colored little rings gripped tight on the wooden frame, white dress flowing behind her. She smiled warmly at the passing sailors, each returning the warm smile with one of their own. She was on her way to find Captain Harley; her husband. Jade loved her work as an officer's secretary. Hell, she even found her husband that way. Or, as Jade always put it, her husband found her. She was just about to enter the indoor quarters of the ship when she heard a holler from the bow. It was distant and she couldn't make it out, but Jade recognized the urgency and panic in the tone. She turned around, as did the sailors near her. She began to stride forward as more calls rang out. As she approached the men making the noise, she a few recognizable words. "Planes-" "gotta get off-" "flying too low" "mother of god, torpedos-". Jade's mouth slowly went agape, her larger two front teeth now exposed. Her arms turned to jelly, falling to her side, the clipboard hitting the deck of the ship with a loud wooden smack. Her eyes grew wide behind her large round glasses, the sun shining off the silver frame, reflecting the large grey blot making it's way from the sky towards her.

"Shit!" John yelped as he missed the nail he was attempting to hammer, hitting his thumb instead. It began to throb red and he quickly stuck the injured digit in his mouth, numbing the pain as best he could.  
>"Egbert, you ok!?" a voice called from below, John's construction manager. While one might usually think that a call if someone is "ok" would show concern, with John's construction manager it was more of a "if you're injured you're fired" sort of deal. Being a construction worker in L.A. was not fun work, John would tell you if he didn't have his thumb in his mouth.<br>"Fine, boss! Just whacked my thumb…! Again! I'm coming down!" John said, sliding his legs off the wooden beam he sat on to hop onto the ladder that made it's way down to the ground floor of the soon-to-be apartment complex.  
>John was halfway down the ladder when he heard his construction manager's voice. "Egbert, hurry up!" Usually this meant that John had left his equipment in the cement mixer (again) or had dropped a hammer on someone's lunch (again) but his manager's tone was of panic, not anger. This got John moving. He ignored the throbbing thumb and grab-stepped his way down the ladder as quick as he could.<p>

John hit the ground with a thud and turned, barely avoiding tripping into an open ditch. Many of his fellow employees were huddled around the radio. What was going on? John quickly approached and began to listen, resting his thumb back in his mouth, sucking gingerly on the injured digit. As everyone began to settle down, the voice of the president, Franklin Delano Roosevelt began. This shushed all the idle chatter and whispers between workers. "Yesterday, Dec. 7, 1941 - a date which will live in infamy - the United States of America was suddenly and deliberately attacked by naval and air forces of the Empire of Japan…" That was as far as John got before he was sprinting from the construction site, sprinting to catch a bus, utter distraught in his eyes.

Rose L. Egbert stared in utter horror at the television. It couldn't be. This was impossible. What she was hearing was impossible. Rose's hands began to tremble on her coffee cup but she starred on, fighting back the tears climbing in her throat. It took a lot to break Rose Lalonde Egbert, and yet she could feel her self coming apart at the seams. The president continued. "The United States was at peace with that nation and, at the solicitation of Japan, was still in conversation with the government and its emperor looking toward the maintenance of peace in the Pacific.

Indeed, one hour after Japanese air squadrons had commenced bombing in Oahu, the Japanese ambassador to the United States and his colleagues delivered to the Secretary of State a formal reply to a recent American message. While this reply stated that it seemed useless to continue the existing diplomatic negotiations, it contained no threat or hint of war or armed attack…" The coffee cup slipped from Rose's hand, crashing to the floor.

Dave Strider glared behind his shades, teeth in a snarl as he listened to the radio, car oil staining his white and red accented baseball shirt. _Mother fuckers_, he thought. _The mother fucking little-_ Two other mechanics stood behind Dave, their faces equally snarled in anger and hatred. A man whose car was being worked on was sitting on the ground, head in his hands. "M-My boy! My boy was wo-workin' on one of them ships in Pearl Harbor, h-he was stationed there! Oh god, oh god!" but the mans voice was so distant, so far from Strider's mind it was like the faint click of a clock in one's subconscious. Only Roosevelt's voice made it through his numbed state of hatred. "It will be recorded that the distance of Hawaii from Japan makes it obvious that the attack was deliberately planned many days or even weeks ago. During the intervening time, the Japanese government has deliberately sought to deceive the United States by false statements and expressions of hope for continued peace.

The attack yesterday on the Hawaiian islands has caused severe damage to American naval and military forces. Very many American lives have been lost. In addition, American ships have been reported torpedoed on the high seas between San Francisco and Honolulu…"

His oddly purple eyes trailed across the paper, a written excerpt of a speech the president of the United States gave roughly a day ago. "Yesterday, the Japanese government also launched an attack against Malaya. Last night, Japanese forces attacked Hong Kong. Last night, Japanese forces attacked Guam. Last night, Japanese forces attacked the Philippine Islands. Last night, the Japanese attacked Wake Island. This morning, the Japanese attacked Midway Island." A sickening, devilish grin rose from Imperial Officer Ampora's lips, a bloodthirsty look entering his eyes, his eyebrows high with excitement, the very hairs on the back of his neck standing up in sheer pleasure. War was coming. Blood would flow. And glory would be his.

The other Japanese officials huddled around the paper as Feferi Piexis's father, an aid to Emperor Tojo, read the transcript delivered to him aloud for all to hear, Feferi's eyes wide and face pale in fear, concern, and worry as she paid especially close attention. Her father read on; "Japan has, therefore, undertaken a surprise offensive extending throughout the Pacific area. The facts of yesterday speak for themselves. The people of the United States have already formed their opinions and well understand the implications to the very life and safety of our nation. As commander in chief of the Army and Navy, I have directed that all measures be taken for our defense. Always will we remember the character of the onslaught against us…" Feferi let out a faint whimper, audible only to her. "We're all going to die…" she whispered.

S.S. Officer Scratch had called his right and left hand men, Sergeant Makara and Sergeant Zahhak, in for a private reading of a recent address given by the esteemed Roosevelt, president of the United States. As Scratch delved deeper into the written copy of the speech delivered to him, sweat began to form on Equius's brow while a slow grin began to emerge on Gamzee's discolored face. Scratch read on; "No matter how long it may take us to overcome this premeditated invasion, the American people in their righteous might will win through to absolute victory.

I believe I interpret the will of the Congress and of the people when I assert that we will not only defend ourselves to the uttermost, but will make very certain that this form of treachery shall never endanger us again. Hostilities exist. There is no blinking at the fact that our people, our territory and our interests are in grave danger…" as Scratch trailed on, images of war- True, gruesome war- Emerged in Equius's head. Images of brothers killing brothers, of families fighting to their last breaths, of the utterly gruesome and unimaginable acts of war- All flashing through his mind, blinding him like a light that had been turned on too fast. "Oh my…" he breathed in a shaky tone under his breath.

Staff Sergeant Dirk Strider glared at the radio presenting grave news to him, his platoon of fresh recruits all huddled behind him to listen (not daring to get close enough to even brush their Staff Sergeant). Dirk's hands began to shake as Roosevelt began to finish. "With confidence in our armed forces - with the unbounding determination of our people - we will gain the inevitable triumph - so help us God.

I ask that the Congress declare that since the unprovoked and dastardly attack by Japan on Sunday, Dec. 7, a state of war has existed between the United States and the Japanese empire." Dirk slowly rose his head, lip quivering, sweat forming at the lines where his hair met his face. He turned to his men who stared at him, looking for guidance, looking for orders, looking for an assurance that what the fuck they heard was true. Dirk strider slowly, carefully, adjusted his pointed sunglasses and stared at his men. "We're at war." Dirk said in a voice shaking with anger. Dirk simply broke away and began to walk forward, the men quickly clearing the way as he made his way across the training grounds, going nowhere in a hurry. The men stared in shock as their C.O. walked off. "We're at war…" one of them whispered to no one in particular. "War…" Another echoed.

We are at War.


	2. Chapter 2 - Departure

John and Rose sat still on the couch. John got his crying out a little while ago, and now Rose was merely sitting there, staring at the brown coffee stain on the floor. They sat silently because they knew what was coming next. "... That's why she n-... telegrams…" John muttered in his stunned tone. Rose merely remained still, gloom hovering around her like ghosts. Here it came. "Rose, hon… I'm joining the army-"  
>"No." Rose responded without emotion, her eyes fixed on the coffee stain. The mere simplicity of the response caught John off guard. He sputtered a bit to himself, staring blankly at her.<p>

"I… Yes, Rose… Rose I have to-" John began again before Rose cut him off.

"No, John. You're not doing anything but staying here with me. End of discussion." She stood from the couch, John staring at her with eyes of a puppy that'd been kicked. Rose didn't even have to turn around to see them, she could feel those eyes burning a hole in the back of her skull. "Stop. John, just stop. I'm going to go into the kitchen and get some cigarettes, and we're going to forget about all this. Understand?"

"I-" John was able to make out before Rose merely strode away, stepping over the brown coffee stain. Rose went for the cabinet with the cigarettes and lighters in it when John's hand caught it. His grip was tight at first. The whimper Rose gave was enough to have John loosen his grip. Rose tightened her lip. She could feel her eyes glossing over. She fought them back, Jegus, she fought them like Hell. "Rose… She was my sister… Damn it Rose, she was my sister and now sh… She's…"

Rose's lips quivered. "And I'm your wife… She wouldn't want you to just throw your life away like this… I won't let you throw your life away like this John… For god sake, we just got married!" she snapped, turning to stare up at John. Now the tears came. They streamed down her face as she snarled up at her husband. That pained look hit him hard. And Rose saw it like red paint on a white target. She felt it move through the air and hit him right across his stupid face. John frowned, his eyebrows drooping a bit.

"Rose…" he began, but she would have none of it. She ripped her hand from his nearly nonexistent grip and began to scream at John in some new found rage.

"You can't do this!" she screamed as she brought her fists against his chest, swinging wildly, John seeming to barely budge. "You can't you can't you can't! You can't leave me! You can't do this to me! I can't lose both of you! I CAN'T LOSE BOTH OF YOU!" John merely stood there, his face frozen in a mixture of shock and pain. Rose was far smaller than John and her punches didn't leave more than a few ruffles in his shirt, but she knew she was hurting him, not with punches but with her pleading. If he was going to leave she was going to make it like he was yanking his hand out of a jar of broken glass and salt.

John moved his hands to catch her wrists mid-swing. Her angry yelling turned to sobs as she collapsed in John's grasp. John tried to pull her into a hug but she drew away from him, hugging her chest, staring at the floor between them. "G-Go…" she said. John, that look still growing on his face, tried to move in to hold her when she recoiled back as if he were pure Hellfire. Rose swore she heard him whimper.  
>There was a long silence before John slowly backed away to the front door. She heard the door creak open and click shut. Rose fell to her knees, sobbing.<p>

Dave Strider sped across the open Texas road on his motorcycle, brush and animal life whooshing past him. One might ask why such a cool fella like Strider here joined the army. He'd usually just adjust his shades and say it was for "irony" but this time he'd tell you the truth. He was angry. He was more ridiculously pissed then he'd ever been in his life. He didn't know what inside him snapped- perhaps the father sobbing over the loss of his son at Pearl Harbor, perhaps the many lost American lives to a sneak attack no one saw coming- whatever it was Strider felt it. He felt the hatred like it was more than just an emotion inside him. It was a being. But when it came down to it, Dave knew exactly why he was doing this. His life had gone nowhere.  
>The only real possessions Dave owned were a shitty apartment in Houston, a motorcycle, a leather jacket and some hand-me-down clothes. From birth he'd practically raised himself, trying to play the hero on the streets by fighting off the sleazy characters flirting up the "damsels in distress" only to find his face met with a pair of shoes, multiple on a bad day. No steady relationships, no steady jobs, no steady goals in life. Strider never let on though, behind those shades of his. He was always cool, calm, and coLHOLYFUCKISTHATACOW!?<p>

The cow on the road in front of Strider seemed to come out of nowhere (an actual attentive driver may of said differently). Dave was quickly snapped back to reality as he attempted to swerve the bike around the "teleporting" bovine. The tires skidded left while the bike tipped right. There was a loud screech as the tires neared the edge of the road and finally gave way. Dave was sent face and shoulder first into the asphalt. He skidded across the ground as the bike shot out from under him, flipping and smashing off into a distant bush. Dave quickly tucked his arms in and went from an uncontrollable tumble to more of a seizure-like roll. He flipped into a ditch, his rather ongoing motion being abruptly stopped. The wind was knocked out of him as he shades flew off his face into the dirt near him. Dust blinded his vision, a cloud of it consuming the whole scene. Everything hurt.

Dave gritted his teeth and groaned as he dug his fingers into the dirt, pushing himself to his knees. He held his shoulder as he looked around. The dust finally cleared and he saw the cow, still casually walking down the road as if nothing happened. Dave's jaw was agape. "You're welcome for me not hitting you in the fucking face you stupid sirloin!" Dave yelled, then quickly recoiled at the triggered pain in his ribs. This'll leave a mark. Dave grabbed his shades and slipped them on. A few scratches but his trademark lived on. He shuffled over to his totalled bike, picked it up, and started walking. He was close now. Close to what would fix the mess that was the life of Dave Strider.

It was close to eight P.M. now. Rose sat on the couch, her mascara long washed away, if not by tears then by the bath she'd taken. She felt bad. No, she felt awful. Rose had known John for a long time, since they were kids, as well as his sister, Jade. She knew he wouldn't hurt her intentionally. Jade was Rose's oldest friend next to John. Her death hurt Rose. Perhaps that's why she had acted as rash as she did, Rose thought. But if Rose losing her oldest friend hurt her this much it must have been ripping John apart. And yet he still tried to be loving with Rose, to put it calmly. He cried for a bit, she remembered that, but he toughened up. Rose recalled always acting, sometimes sarcastically and sometimes literally, as though she wore the pants in the family, that she was the muscle that pulled their lives along. But she knew it was John's tenderness and grit that was the true winner between them.

Rose sighed and buried her face in her hands. It was almost eight and he wasn't back. She was starting to get worried. She was about to call the police when she heard the door open. John stepped in, his head hung low. "I understand if you're still angry… I think I'll stay at the motel down the street until you think it's ok for me to come back to live here. I can start on the couch and-" John's pitiful display was abruptly stopped by Rose leaping at him, throwing her arms around his neck and embracing him in a tight hug.

"Oh just shut up you big oaf!" she said with a laugh that contained a few sobs. Whether they were of joy or lingering pain, Rose was unsure of. John recoiled a bit, but quickly threw his arms around Rose. They stayed like that for what seemed like an eternity. "I understand." Rose said simply.  
>John opened his mouth to speak, but closed it and rested his chin on her shoulder. "I'll come back… I swear, I will…"<p>

Rose smiled and kissed John on the cheek, stepping back to hold his hands in hers. "I know."

John watched Rose through the train window. He smiled and waved, his heart heavy. She waved back, constantly sniffling, trying to keep it all in. The train jerked forward and she began to disappear from his sight. John kept his near glued to the window, watching her fade away. And then, she was gone. For the unmeasurable future, all that would be left of her for John would be letters. This train was Arizona bound, Fort Huachuca.


	3. Chapter 3 - Laying Down the Law

The bus came to a halt. John's head was launched forward, smacking into the seat in front of him. John blinked heavily and looked around, adjusting his glasses, his suitcase in his lap. The doors hissed open and a burly looking man with a broad chest and greying hair stepped on, the bus nearly tipping to one side. Was this guy really all muscle? "Off the bus boys, move your ass! Time to fit you for the worst six months of your life!" he roared. John gulped as the hordes of young men began to push their way through the bus like a current, sweeping him with them.

He was rushed along with the horde to a half-circle shaped building of metal. The large burly man turned to face them. "Now, I will not sugar coat this. We will be hitting the shit immediately. You have the remainder of today to unpack what meager belongings you wretches have, get in your uniforms, and get in to bed. Tomorrow you will awake at o'five hundred, sharp. You will make your beds so neat, so straight not even Jegus H. fucking Christ will be able to see a fault in it's symmetry, am I understood!?"

"Sir yes sir!" the crowd returned.

"Good! Then move your asses!" the burly man barked. The boys quickly rushed into the building, chatter between them already beginning. Once they began to disperse in the barracks John was able to spread out a bit. Holy Hell it was hot out here. California was humid, but this Arizona heat made it feel like John was in an oven. Most the boys had come in groups and already found their beds, yet John stumbled around with his duffel bag on his back, unsure where to settle down. He looked around in a confused manner. It was like finding a damn lunch table in high school. Finally he spied a blonde kid in a tanktop and jeans, sunglasses on, playboy in hand. Did they allow "gentlemen's magazines" on base? The man seemed alone. John approached with caution.

John set his duffel bag on the bed adjacent to the blonde guy, begining to file out his belongings. He neatly folded away his clothes in his footlocker as well as some other knick-knacks until he came upon a picture of Rose. When had she slipped this in here? He gave it a quick look. It was her and John, side by side at a Christmas party a few weeks ago. "She looks so happy…" John muttered to himself, unaware he was speaking out loud. He did not notice the the figure looming behind him.

"So, you bangin' her?" the voice asked crudely.

John whipped his head around to find the blonde guy, staring down at him, his shades giving a sort of condescending yet… Cool look to the man. "I, uh… Wh… Oh! Oh, no, this is my wife. Wait, I mean yes. Wait, banging? As in- For god sake I'm not even here 3 minutes and I'm already lost and confused." John said, his eyes going a bit wide behind his glasses as he slumped against the foot locker. The blonde guy laughed and kneeled in front of John.

"My name's Dave, buck-tooth. Dave Strider. Who're you?" he asked, extending his hand.

John tucked the picture in his pocket and grabbed Dave's hand, pulling himself to his feet. "I'm John, John Egbert. Nice to meet you Dave." John said with a bright smile.

Dave raised an eyebrow from his shades. "You're a bit friendly… A'ight, let me explain to you somethin'. Most the people in this room's gunna be dead in a year, or two. You seem like the nice type so I'll put it to you easy. Don't make too many friends, because a lot of 'em may not be comin' home to pretty wives like you got. If you're gunna be friendly, understand the consequences." Dave said, resting a hand on John's shoulder.

John frowned a bit, glancing to the floor from the side of his glasses. "Yeah… I figured as much. But hey, if I'm one of the ones that doesn't make it back… Might as well die around my friends, r-right?" John said, offering as sincere a smile as he could though any real joy had just been purged from his body.

Dave offered a cocky yet comforting smile back. "Sure man, sure, I feel ya." He said. This relaxed John a bit. Suddenly, the door of the barracks burst open again, the burly man was back. "Why the ever-loving SHIT aren't you all in your beds!? MOVE MAGGOTS!" Dave and John quickly sprinted to their beds. For fuck sake, they were still in the clothes they came here in. They both jumped into their beds, John on the bottom bunk, Dave on the top bunk. Once the rustling stopped moving and it was clear everyone was in their separate beds, the burly man nodded. "Shitty dreams, shitbirds!" he comforted, flipping the lights off and slamming the door closed.

There was a very long pause of silence where no one rustled or spoke. Then, for just a moment, Dave's voice broke through for all to hear. "These beds really fucking suck." This was met with a collection of snickers.

The door opened with a slam. "UP AT AND AT 'EM CUPCAKES!" the voice barked. John's eyes shot open and he jolted a bit, pulling something in his neck. He groaned, holding his neck as everyone quickly bolted from their beds. "FRONT AND CENTER SHITSNACKS!" the voice barked again. Everyone began to shuffle toward the sergeant. He rolled his eyes. "Not without your CLOTHES you MORONS! You're heading to the fuckin' showers!" They all turned back, rushing to their footlockers.

John rubbed his sore neck as he rifled through his footlocker. Boots? Check. Olive trousers? Check. Undershirt? Check. Socks? Check. Olive button-down? Check. Belt? Check. He bundled the clothes in his arms, folding them as he went. He stood in line with the others. He glanced back- Dave was there. Good, at least he wasn't on his own. At once everyone began to move. John could tell they weren't nearly as organized as they'd have to be in the next six months. The clump of young soldiers bustled over to the shower house. Everyone filed inside, someone closing the wooden door behind them. John stopped, looking at the unblocked rows of showers. Immediately he saw everyone getting undressed, tossing their clothes to the side. John look mortified. "Wait… We're all naked? Where are the stall blocks?"

Dave chuckled a bit, disrobing himself. "Man, you really are new to this kinda crap aren't you?"

There was a hard knock on the door. "Five minutes cupcakes! Then you hustle your asses over your barracks and file in line by your bunks!" the burly-man barked. "I'm really starting to hate him…" Said another young soldier John only knew by "Morrison". Names weren't being passed around much, everyone either knew each other already or didn't mingle.

After a very uncomfortable 5 minutes, John slipped his drab on and jogged back to the barracks. Everyone got in their respective lines, shoulder to shoulder, Dave to his left. Then, silence. All they could hear was the buzz of the lights in their barracks. It remained that way for several minutes until the door opened, for once not with a violent swinging bang. Some snapped

The man was short, dawning 3 chevrons on his shoulder and a hat John only described as "those things Mounties wear". He walked calmly with his hand behind his back. He looked at their heels to attention, others (like John) lazily man with steady, piercing eyes. John stood as erect as he could, chin level with the floor. The sergeant walked by him, giving him the same look-down as the others. Once he finished he moved to the center of the room. He cleared his throat. "My name is Sergeant Aaron Ratchet, or if you prefer AR. I will be level with you. I am about justice. I am about what is fair, what is true, what is just." he paused, staring at one man in particular before turning to face the area near John. "You have met Sergeant Boxer. You see he is an ass." there was a brief chuckle. "I will be fair, true, and just with you all, under one condition; follow Ratchet's Rules of War. 5 rules I will engrave into your memories until you begin to dream these rules, mutter them in your sleep." He paused, looking away from where John was to the opposite side of the room.

"Rule one," he began. "Follow orders. Don't be the one to sprint off from your group thinking you're some kind of hero. All you're going to find is the 'Great Almighty' walking you through the pearly gates of "you're an idiot" town." There was a restricted snicker from the crowd.

"Rule two, keep the enemies heads down. What goes around comes around and that goes double for a bullet. If you cover your fellow grunts, your fellow grunts will cover you." he turned once more to face the corner to John's left and the men standing there.

"Rule three, save casualties BEFORE they're casualties. Bullets don't always kill. If your buddy is down you drag them back to cover and make sure they get back so that they may kill another day." He paused once more for effect, then turned back to John's area.

"Rule four, keep track of your ammunition. It's not just embarrassing to be caught by a Jap with an empty mag, it's also very bad for your health." Once more, there was a suppressed snicker.

"Rule five… Don't get shot. I can't even go into more detail on that one; don't get shot. Don't be that idiot that takes a bullet they didn't need to take, because then you're going to put some other poor bastard in harms way trying to drag your hide back to a medical tent. Am I understood soldiers?"

"HOORAH!"

"Hoorah indeed. Also, there is an written sixth rule of Ratchet's Laws of War." Silence. "Don't. Break. Ratchet's. Laws. Of War. You break them in bootcamp and I will personally break you over my knee. Break it in battle and Tojo will do it for me." John gulped. AR looked over everyone more, then nodded. "Looks like you all get the message eh? Alright, hustle over to the obstacle course. Time for you 'fine gentlemen' to see what everyday for the next six months will be like."

Wake up, shower, obstacle course, mess hall, clean firearms, shoot firearms, marching, shoot firearms, more marching, mess hall, back to obstacle course, showers, mess hall, bed.

Imperial Officer Eridan Ampora stood, looming over the prisoner before him. A chinese rebel, from Nanking even. Ah Nanking… Eridan took a moment to briefly recall and admire the work he'd done there. He opened his eyes again, glancing to his left. The man's wife and son were also bound, two Japanese soldiers aiming their rifles at them. Eridian smiled and kneeled down at eye level to the man. "Where are the arms you stole from our outpost in Nanking?" Eridan asked in a calm tone. The Chinese man kept his head low, his black sweat-sticky hair blocking his face.

Eridan grinned and grabbed the man's hair, yanking his face up to meet Eridan's. The man groaned, then glared into Eridan's eyes. "Kill me!" he screamed. "You'll never get the location of the guns from me! The Japanese will be pushed from China and there is nothing you can do about it!"

Eridan merely held his smile, letting go of the man's hair. He nodded a bit to himself, pacing around the man. He then made his way over to the man's wife. She turned her head away from Eridan. She was shaking. He could see was she scared. Then turned his attention to the boy. He looked about fourteen, maybe fifteen. There was even a bit of peach fuzz adorning his chin. Eridan motioned for the woman to the unbound. The two Japanese soldiers lifted the woman to her feet and undid her bindings. Eridan nudged his head to the side, motioning she go join her husband. She had a brief look of joy on her face as she shuffled over to her husband.

The Chinese man smiled up at her and she smiled back. However she froze just before reaching him. She had a confused look on her face, but her eyes began to widen as a small trail of blood moved down the corners of her lip. She gurgled as the katana went through the front of her throat, ever so slowly, until a good foot of steel protruded from her neck. The Chinese man's eyes were locked on hers, his mouth opening. "No…" he whispered.

In a flash the katana was yanked from her throat, blood spraying from the wound onto the Chinese man and the wall behind him until all was red. The woman slowly moved her eyes up to the ceiling, the gurgling noises growing louder, until finally she fell backwards with a hard bang on the bamboo floor. The Chinese man and his son starred in a mixture of horror and awe. Eridan lowered his katana to the floor, blood dripping from the tip. "Hmph… I'm going to the next interrogation, wrap up here." he said to the other two soldiers, sheathing his katana and walking out. Shortly after, the tent erupted into an orchestra of gun shots.

It was a constant routine of get up, go go go, fall down for John and his new found friend. Five months to be exact. However, John could tell he'd come a long way from when he'd first arrived here. During the first week he couldn't hit the broadside of a barn with the Thomson he'd been given, though now he was nailing cans at medium range with enough precision to even have AR turning a smile. There was a perk to being a construction worker, and that perk is godly hand-eye coordination.

As for the obstacle course, his first week was spent with scratching at the 5-log-high wall, praying for some gust of wind to launch him over. Now, John actually enjoyed getting up in the morning and running the course. Vaulting over walls, crawling in the mud, zig-zagging through tires- It was like he was back in elementary school. This was a playground for him.

Dave was not quite so adjusted to this new militant life. When handed an M1 Carbine, Dave couldn't hit 100 broadsides of a barn all next to each other in one giant, glorious barn for a super-breed of mega cows. Now he could barely hit his marks at 30 yards. Still, AR was patient. Always monitoring, always attempting to improve. Dave did feel his skills increasing a bit, perhaps not as well as John's, but increasing none the less.

As for the obstacle course, Dave despised it with such a passion it wasn't uncommon for him to dream of the whole damn thing alight, even the mud. Flammable god-damn mud. Dave at times found pride in his ability to press on even when he was exhausted, tackling the course with the relentless professionalism that the army he'd now joined promoted so strongly.

Dave and John had grown closer as a team, as well. They were almost never separate and made few other friends besides each other. AR often promoted such use of teams, and when it came to two-on-two hand to hand combat training Dave and John often dominated the other teams. Together they were relentless; Dave would keep one busy while John would get around and smash them into the ground, Dave moving in for the "kill" while John single-handedly decked the other opponent.

However, one day AR called everyone out into the training field after their morning meal. There was a chalk circle of decent size, about 10 yards tall and 10 yards wide. AR stood in the middle, wearing only a T-Shirt, olive trousers and a pair of boots. He was often dressed prim, an officer to aspire to (in the sense of fashion, anyway). The men lined up, Dave and John in the front. AR gave his men a smile and began to pace the circle slowly. "You've all proven in team combat that you're all more than capable. However, what I've noticed with the majority is that you break off, one man taking on the other. Today, you will be fighting me- And me alone." Dave gulped. "You will still be in your teams of course, to make it fair." AR said a bit arrogantly, grinning to himself. "Get into your teams; we fight until one of you gets me either back or belly down into the dirt. Otherwise, you'll be staying up all night, and don't even think about eating dinner. Alright, enough chatter; who goes first?"

Dave and John, proud as they were, stepped forward. AR smiled at them and nodded. "I expected no other team to be so ready for this challenge I've given you," AR said as he relaxed his shoulders a bit, raising his hands into fists. "Alright boys; have at me."

Dave and John rose their fists, slowly shuffling forward. Per usual, Dave moved in the front and John around the side. AR held his ground, leaving his side completely exposed to John should he advance while Dave got into closer combat. 'Got this in the bag!' John thought. Dave got close and bounced a bit. AR's eyes were locked on Dave's movements, every jostle, every twitch he saw. Dave finally jabbed left. AR dipped his head out of the blow's range and stepped back a step. Dave swung once more with his other hand in a long right-hook. AR lolled his head under the swing gracefully, Dave's clenched fist barely grazing a hair on AR's head. John, of course, was just watching, waiting for his moment to strike. Now it was AR's turn.

While Dave's right side was completely exposed, his arms to the left of AR, the small drill sergeant launched a fist into Dave's gut. Dave spat out air, his breath escaping his lungs instantly. AR slipped behind the hunched over Dave quick as you please. AR launched his boot into the back of Dave's knee, sending Dave to his knees. John began to panic; this wasn't how most of these fights went down! He charged forward, planning on sending his knee into what ever limb of AR he could reach, he had to get Dave back on his feet. AR, of course, was waiting for this.

When John was close enough he leaped forward, launching his knee at AR's side. AR smiled and grabbed the back of Dave's shirt, throwing Dave to the side- In the path of John's knee. John's "heroic" blow was sent straight into Dave's face. There was a loud smack as Dave was launched into the dirt, flying past AR, who stood like a Matador as the bull (that was now Dave's limp body) came speeding past him. Dave skidded across the dirt like a stone 'cross water before coming to a halt, staring at the sky with wide eyes, his nose bleeding. Ow.

John went wide eyed, watching in horror as Dave skidded. "Oh sh-" John began before AR's foot briefly met John's face. John's head went to the side, spit splattering across the dirt as John fell belly-first into the ground. AR smiled once more, resting his hands behind his back, the two boys lying in the ground, groaning in pain. "Now, who's next?"

This series of two young boys trying to defeat AR, and AR proceeding to utterly annihilate them, continued from 8 in the morning till 6 at night. The men all stood in a loose clump as the pair that were currently in the ring were thrown out of it. All the young soldiers were battered and bruised, tears in their clothes from the rocks on the ground, multiple bleeding from broken noses or other lacerations. John stood, holding his wounded shoulder while Dave was sitting on the ground, holding his thigh. "We're never gonna beat this guy…" Dave said with a cough, spitting out some blood into the dirt as the next two boys moved in, most likely to receive yet another healthy daily serving of whoop-ass.

John kneeled with a groan next to Dave, still holding his shoulder. "We've got to win this next one…" he said, watching as the boys began to dance around AR, both looking utterly exhausted while AR was only now- after many hours- beginning to show signs of flagging. Dave watched carefully as the small man bounced around, launching the two boys into the dirt.

"We have to tire him out." Dave said plainly.

John scoffed a bit. "And how exactly are we gunna do that?"

Dave smiled. "We just have to keep him going. Tease him on. We always advance and be aggressive; well, how about we act like we're about to go hail-mary on him like we've all been trying for the past day and then have him strike a few times, only to be out of his reach. Keep him going until he starts to soften up. Then, we hammer him." Dave said, slamming his fist on the ground for emphasis. John sighed, standing up.

"Well… Worth a shot; not like we've had much luck thus far." John muttered. He extended his non-injured (or, less injured, to be accurate) arm down to Dave. Dave took the aid and was pulled to his feet. They both stretched their limbs best they could and entered the ring. This time John stayed close behind Dave as opposed to his usual side-step routine. AR rose his fists up once more, smiling.

"How does dirt taste, Dave?" AR asked, chuckling. Taunting; just what Dave wanted, now his sudden burst of aggression would appear real. Dave launched himself forward, making for a right hook before pausing, ducking left. AR originally moved his arm to block the right hook but, upon seeing Dave duck low, moved his foot to trip Dave. Dave of course was ready for this and jumped over AR's extended leg, rolling across the dirt back to his feet. AR moved his head to see where Dave had gone. He realized the mistake he had made but was too late to reverse it; his back was now exposed to John. John launched an elbow forward, konking AR in the back of the skull. AR stumbled forward, bringing his foot in a roundhouse toward John. It nicked John across the chin and sent him back a bit, Dave joining his side. The crowd of soldiers gasped. This was the first real strike on AR made yet today.

AR grunted a bit, nodding. "So, took you both this long to get it huh? Alright boys, now the real fight begins…" AR danced forward, bouncing from foot to foot. Shit, shit he's never actually advanced before.

Dave gulped and readied his fists, John moving back to Dave's side. AR leaped at Dave, throwing a punch. Dave narrowly side stepped it, AR sliding past him. AR turned and whipped his fist backwards toward Dave's face, whacking him across the mouth, causing Dave to stumble a bit. John went to knee AR in the side but AR caught the knee between his arm and his ribs, elbowing John in the nose with his free arm. The two boys stumbled back but AR progressed with even more aggression. AR sent an uppercut for John. It landed, sending John another few steps back. AR was exposed and, this time, Dave took the initiative. Dave launched his fist out, catching AR across the jaw. AR's head cracked to the side as Dave sent another blow; a kick to the side of AR's leg. AR hollered as his leg was sent to the side and he fell to his knees. John moved in to AR's front while Dave was geared in the back. AR knew there was little to stop this; he'd finally been beaten.

Dave reared back and launched his leg forward. The flat of his foot hit AR's back like a freight train. AR coughed up what air was left in his lungs as he was launched forward toward the dirt and, more importantly, toward John's foot. John had launched his leg forward as Dave had. AR's face cracked right into John's leg, the impact causing AR's head to whip back as he fell, a bit of blood shooting into the air. Finally, AR hit the ground with a thud. Dave and John stood over the body, both breathing heavily.

AR coughed, stumbling to his feet, holding his nose (which now bled). He removed his hand to look at his bleeding nose. He smiled at the both of them, nodding. "I'd say you earned that meal…" John and Dave lowered their fists and looked to each other, both bearing a shit eating grin. There was a cheering of the beaten and battered men that shared John and Dave's barracks.

A steak had never tasted so good before that night.

The next day, John and Dave were standing near their bunks talking, the rest of the platoon also enjoying their "off day". The door squeaked open and everyone turned to see AR walking in, hands behind his back. Everyone rose to attention, standing near their beds, bodies stiff as boards. AR walked from man to man as he had the first day they were trained. Finally he moved to the middle of the room and smiled. "As I'm sure you all know, the battle again Japan is heating up. The Marines are kicking Tojo's ass at Guadalcanal, but sooner or later they're going to need help. The 23rd Infantry Division has been training at New Caledonia in jungle warfare. Some of you will be getting desk jobs but the majority of you were are joining those brave men against the Japs on the front." smiles spread all around, in fact all but Dave were smiling.

AR grit his teeth in a smile. "You're soldiers!" he slammed his fist down in his open palm. "HOORAH!" the boys cheered. "You're Americans!" he said again. "HOORAH!" the boys responded. "You're killers!" "HOORAH!" "And most importantly, you're going to kick Tojo's tail back to the fuckin' dynasty age!" "HOORAH! HOORAH! HOORAH!" the soldiers chanted on. Dave however, got an odd chill up his spine. He glanced at John; even he was cheering. Something in Dave's gut told him now was not as joyous a time as it seemed. Something told him that war perhaps wasn't as excitable as all these young grunts thought it was going to be, as Uncle Sam said it would be. Not for the revenge bent John, not even for the Order-bent AR. Why did it take so long to realize a simple truth; war was coming, and war was ugly. Unfortunately for Dave, he'd come to this conclusion far, far too late.


	4. Chapter 4 - Blood on the Snow

Equius breathed in through his nose and gently breathed out, staring at the mirror in his quarters. He ran his fingers through his hair, slicking the long locks back. He finished buttoning up his officers coat, taking a moment to note the _SS_ pin on his collar. While the coat fit Equius rather well the pants were rather goofy-looking. Due to Equius's large build, it was difficult to find pants that he could sport well, therefore the trousers he had here all came up to just below his knee, forcing him to wear high socks. Scratch also jested in saying he looked Napoleonic in this fashion.

Equius turned toward the door of his quarters, satisfied with his current attire (though it seldom bothered him). He opened the door and stepped out into the crisp December air. The sun was only just rising above the horizon. Being third in command, somehow below that fool Makara, Equius's job here at the labor camp was to sort out the new comers in the civilian entrance, Makara dealing with the POW entrance, and Scratch… Well, Scratch had his own agenda. Equius had figured that much out right quick upon his arrival.

Equius strode across the camp, his boots leaving fresh prints in the soft white snow. As he walked, a recurring thought came across Equius's mind. These "labor camps" weren't really for labor at all. These were political slaughterhouses. Quite frankly, Equius had only made his war cry for the Nazi party when it spoke of a reform of what was once the Great German Empire. Equius was only a boy during the Great War but he recalled his father, an engineer for the Germans, speaking of the heinous outcomes of the Great War and how Germany had been kicked to a corner like some dog that'd bit its owner.

Granted, Equius was no fool; he knew he had some blind prejudices against the Entente. That did not change how he felt for the Fatherlands though; the Germans were clearly superior, even some of the Japanese admitted to this (not that those fools would know anything about what a true hierarchy of beings are anyway).

Equius made it to the front gates, a large brick archway with wrought iron gates and two sniper towers. An 8 foot brick wall stretched across the entire camp, barbed wire lining the top. Equius climbed the steps to the middle of the archway which looked over the train stop. Ten German soldiers stood shoulder to shoulder in front of the gate, a junior officer waiting for the first train to arrive. Equius reached into his coat, drawing a pocket watch. 6:44 in the AM. The first train should be arriving soon.

Equius leaned his head from the tower, taking a closer look at the men below. "Krieger! You're five inches in front of the line, find your place man! Schneider! You call that standing at attention!? Are you a soldier or a tweaker?" Equius continued to bark until he felt a cold hand on his shoulder, one he recognized like no other touch on this earth. Equius silenced his ranting and turned to his right, extending his right arm into the air above him. "Heil Hitler!" Equius said loudly.

Officer Scratch gave a lazy salute back. "At ease, Zahhak." Scratch said, resting against the railing of the gate overview. Equius rested his hands behind his back and stood upright behind Scratch, waiting to see what Scratch wanted. Scratch was quiet for a good while, staring in an unfocused gaze out across the rolling Austrian hills, his stark white hair twitching in the crisp winter morning breeze. Finally he drew a cigarette from his officers uniform. He took it between his lips, taking a match from his sleeve and lighting the smoke. He offered another cigarette to Equius, who politely declined. Scratch stuck the cigarettes back in his coat pocket and stood in front of Equius. Only now did he grasp quite how large his third in command was.

Finally, after this long silence, Equius spoke. "Sir, is there something you request of me?" Scratch smiled that cold smile of his, turning back to face the gates of the camp.

"I only wanted to check on my officers dear boy, I'll be seeing to Makara and his men after you… Also, if you'd please, later tonight after dinner I'd like to speak to you in my office." Scratch said, taking the cigarette between his fingers, smoke rolling from his nostrils.

Equius snapped his boots together. "Of course sir! I could skip my meal to meet you sooner, if it pleases you, sir?" Equius inquired.

Scratch laughed a bit, turning to pat Equius on the shoulder before making his way for the stairs. "That will not be required Zahhak. I'll see you later tonight; be a… good host to the newcomers arriving today. The directing details will move the guests, you just… Welcome them." Scratch said as he reached the bottom of the stairs, making his way across the camp grounds, two guards at his right and left.

Equius let his shoulders slump a bit, a few beads of sweat dripping from his brow. Something about Scratch always did Equius nervous, yet… He felt like a peasant before the Doc.

"Officer Zahhak! Trains arriving!" Equius heard from one of the guards below. Equius turned his head and leaned it off the gate walkway. "Well? What are you waiting for? Welcome our guests, Schneider! Must I do this all myself!?"

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Rose Egbert slumped in the lazyboy in the living room, the clock counting down the seconds, minutes, and hours Rose sat alone, staring at the letter on the desk. It was from John, and while she hadn't opened it yet, she knew what it's contents would entail. Where he was going. What hell-hole the U.S. army would be sending him. Maybe he's just going to get sent into the reserves, Rose pondered. She bit her lip, closing her eyes. She knew that wasn't it. She knew that her- nor John- ever had such luck. She glanced away from the letter briefly to the coffee stain adorning the floor. Still haven't gotten around to cleaning that up, Rose thought. Finally, with a sigh, Rose leaned forward and picked up the letter.

The train jerked to a hard stop. Nepeta was thrown forward, ripped from her dream. She hit the wooden floorboard of the train with a smack, letting out a yelp. She crawled to her knees, rubbing her cheek. There was a pause, a few German voices hovering around the walls of the cart. The other gypsies were all standing, holding eachother, most wrapped in the tattered cloth they'd lived in for so long. It was all the soldiers that rounded them up would let them keep.

A wrinkled hand came down in front of Nepeta. "Huh?" she muttered, looking up. An older man bearing what Nepeta found to be beautiful dark green scarf was reaching down for her to aid her up. She extended her small hand to his, taking his help as he pulled her to her feet.

"On your feet little one." the man said, looking onward across the heads of the cluttered gypsies. He looked back down to Nepeta, seeing the fear in her large eyes and the bit of blood now trickling from her nose. He kneeled best he could in the tight car and removed a handkerchief from his coat pocket. He dabbed the blood from under Nepeta's nose. He proceeded to take the scarf from around his neck, wrapping it around Nepeta's neck and shoulders. It nearly acted like a poncho; she was so small. He smiled. "There, now you-"

He was interrupted as the doors squealed open. German voices barked and everything began to move so fast. Nepeta shuffled forward with the old man, people bumping her as they filed out of the car. She squeezed the scarf tightly around her, burying her head deep enough into the scarf it stopped above her nose. The morning sun hit her emerald eyes, causing her to wince and blink. The crowd was moved along brick walls toward a fence, loud voices barking in a language she didn't understand to her right and left. She looked up at the looming gate to see a rather tall and muscular man in square glasses staring down at the crowd.

Equius leaned against the railing, watching the gypsies file out. An officer came up the stairs and approached Equius. They turned to meet each other, the soldier extending his arm out. "Heil Hitler!" they exchanged. The soldier then glanced to the crowds. "You are needed for sorting sir. We have a small group today, shouldn't take very long. However… Er… Officer Makara has requested to… 'Take his pick of the litter' sir." the soldier explained.

Equius tightened his lip. He was so very irritated by Makara's perversion. When ever there was a group of gypsies or Polish civilians, Makara came along to pick what ever women he pleased. Equius tried not to think about why they never left his quarters, or if they did they seldom spoke or would try to throw themselves onto a soldier's bayonet. Equius sighed. "Alright, file them into the courtyard."

Nepeta shuffled along with the others, the German soldiers leading them into the long courtyard. She was in the middle of the crowd and couldn't see much of the camp through the marching bodies, though she swore she saw a wall with a ditch in front of it, soldiers filling the trench once more with earth, some sort of red stain sporting the wall. She hugged the scarf close to her body as she was shuffled along until she and the others finally came to a stop. She could hear a man with a strong voice speaking, directing orders.

Equius looked over the crowd of gypsies. He always hated this part; deciding who would live and who would die. For once however, Makara's existence here was a GOOD thing. He would choose who was sent to the fires while Equius chose who would join the ranks of the workers. In truth Equius saw the difference as a slow death or a quick one but one would be shocked to see just how long people cling to life. This double-ruling system was Makara's price for his whore-choosing.

The first few were good hearty young men. "Go left you lot, you'll be working." Equius commanded, motioning his hand. The men shuffled off, grunting angrily. They appeared a fiery bunch; better keep an eye on them.

Next, an old couple approached. Before Equius could speak, Gamzee blurted out "You two mothafuckas go right!" he gave a sort of half wicked, half drunken grin. Equius could see the old couple was a bit unnerved by this.

Equius cleared his throat. "There's… Food and medication for the old and sickly that way. Go on." The couple looked a bit more relieved and shuffled off. Equius normally hated gypsies. All they did was take up space and ruin small towns with their filth. But even they weren't deserving of this.

A young woman holding a fur coat approached. This one must of been the caravan leader, or perhaps one of the prostitute girls. Makara grinned. "Well hello lil' lady…" Gamzee said, approaching her. She smiled coyly, drawing the coat to her lips in a mysterious manner. She may of known how this "game" was played with most young boys, but she did not know Gamzee Makara to the horror and extent Equius did. After some uncomfortable flirting, Gamzee hooked his arm around her and walked her back beside Equius. "I think I'll take this girl right 'ere and maybe another or three, heh heh ha…" Equius rolled his eyes and continued.

Next, an old man with a young looking girl with a large approached. The old man stood with a broad chest and bravery in his eyes. Actually, he looked quite strong. The young girl looked a bit too small to do any heavy lifting, but perhaps if-

"Lil one with me, old man to the right." Gamzee said with his arm still hooked around the woman in the fur coat. Fear enlarged Nepeta's eyes.

The old man stepped in front of Nepeta. "No! I know what you'll do with her! You can do to me what you like, bu-" the old man was interrupted as Gamzee shot across the snow, his long gangly arm sending his fist right into the man's lower jaw. The man dropped to his knees, Nepeta screaming and falling backwards in the snow.

As the old man was bent on his hands and knees in the snow, spitting a bit of blood, Gamzee chuckled a bit. "Look at this mothafucka right here tryin' TELL ME WHAT TO DO!" Gamzee sent his foot right in the old mans ribs. There was a sickening crack as the old man was taken off his hands and knees a good few inches in the air before slamming back into the snow, rolling a bit. Gamzee drew his Luger with a smile, aiming with full intent to kill, up until a large hand found it's place on Gamzee's shoulder.

Gamzee looked back with a sneer, Equius's tall figure looming over the twitchy messy-haired man. "No, Makara." Equius stated in a commanding tone. "He is still strong enough to work. He lives." Gamzee's shoulders rose and fell with his wild breaths before finally he gave a loud chuckle, lowering his pistol and letting his arm swing a bit freely at his side.

"What eva' you say big man! I'm takin' miss fur coat to my mothafuckin' quarters, you have fun sortin' these bitches." Gamzee laughed out, putting his arm around the coated girl and walking off to the other side of the camp- Gamzee's side of the camp.

Equius huffed a bit, turning to face the old man. The small girl had her arm around his waist, helping him to his feet. When he had finally risen, he and the small girl shuffled past Equius. "Thank you…" the girl said in a wispy scared tone as they made their way to the work barracks.

Equius sighed heavily. "Don't thank me yet…" he said in a whisper when she was out of earshot, before straightening his back and peering at the on-looking group of gypsies. "Alright, you scum have seen your show. Next prisoner!"

Officer "Doc" Scratch stood with a pipe in his gloved hand, staring out the window of his office at the scene that had just unfolded. His eyes narrowed a bit in interest as he brought his pipe up to his lips, the wood of the pipe clattering with his near-spotless white teeth. "Hmm…" he muttered.

Rose Egbert drew in a breath and sighed. Finally, after what seemed like ages, she unfolded the piece of paper and began to read.

"Hi Rose! Sorry if this letter isn't exactly formated or… Grammatically proper or whatever it is you call it. You were more of the book worm then I was. Anyway, I'm just letting you know I've officially made it out of bootcamp! I'm a private now! Wait, that sounded wrong. Anyway, I have some sort of bad news. There's a regiment-thing that lost a lot of people in the last few months of the war in Japan. They need reinforcements and it seems that's where me and Dave are going. Oh, I forgot to mention Dave! He's the first friend I made when I got here! And for some reason he wanted to know if I was… Hitting you, or some sort of sexual thing that… I dunno. He's kinda weird. But cool in some sort of way. Am I rambling? I think I'm rambling. Anyway, I just wanted to let you know not to worry and that I am doing alright. I hope you're doing alright too and I'll be sure to write you letters as often as I possibly can! I love you Rose! I'll see you again in no time!

Love, John.  
>P.S. Am I supposed to write "love John" if the last sentence I wrote was "I love you?"<p>

P.P.S. I love you"

Rose gave the first real laugh she'd ever had in the last six months as she held the card. She didn't even notice the tears finding their way onto the paper. "I love you too… You idiot…" she said out loud with a genuine smile.

Feferi slowly opened the sliding door of her room. Being an aid to the emperor of Japan, her father made quite a handsome amount of money, enough to even pay for a maid every other day. The only trouble was Feferi did not know which days and when she may of decided to stay the night. Sneaking around in such a paranoid condition was never an easy task. Not to mention that her father may not even be asleep which would make this entire rebellious task pointless.

Feferi crept into the hallway, taking cautionary steps toward the sliding door into her fathers office. The door was open slightly but the lamp wasn't on; good, he was asleep. She slid into the office and quickly made her way to his desk which was cluttered with papers. She could by the state of the room her father had been very busy. Usually he never leaves a paper unfiled.

She sat down in his chair and began rifling through the papers. Anything of any real value would be still held in the Imperial Palace, not an aid's house, but at the very least she could get an update as to what's happened these past few months. The papers say that Japan has been winning decisively but Feferi was wiser than to trust the press. Aha, what have we here. A summary on the front of the war with America. She began to skim.

Her eyes dotted down the page. It seemed an Imperial Officer Ampora was running most of the show on the front as far as land battles went. The Americans were slowly pushing forward, but at a cost. She set the page down and was going to go for another when the door slid open. She quickly looked to her side to see her father standing in the doorway. He looked exhausted, still wearing his work clothes. Did he go to sleep in those?

His stubbly face adorned a frown. "Damn it Feferi… I told you, this information isn't for you to know!" he barked.

Feferi stood, chin high in the air, chest extended. She always was a prideful one. "I hear rumors of what we're doing to the farmers in the islands the Americans are advancing on! Do you want to know what I hear?" she asked in a sharp tone, approaching her father. Her father sighed, rubbing his nose and leaning tiredly against the door frame but Feferi pressed on. "I've heard we're using them as bullet shields practically! Setting the village to blow and killing Americans in ambushes!" she was in his face now. "I hear we're even taking their crops! Feeding our troops and leaving them to starve! How can you allow such activity? How can you allow such monstrosity by our own hand, to our own pe-"

Her father swung his hand out, striking Feferi across the cheek. There was a sharp smack, a quick pained gasp escaping her lips as her head jerked to the side, her long flowing hair moving gracefully through the air for a moment. She looked up at her father, who's angry frown now turned into a regretful one. "Feferi, wait-" he began before she pushed him out of the way, running down the hall toward her room. She shut her slide door and threw herself on her bed, beginning to sob. Her father sighed even heavier, rubbing his eyes with his thumbs. What was he going to do with her?

"Grey ithh a thhade you dumb athh." Radioman Sollux Captor said in a condescending tone, his lisp heavy, his voice cracking with prepubescents even though he was far out of his teens.

"Oh is that so 'mithhter I thhpeak with a lithhhhptptpa-pa-p-p'!" Rifleman Karkat Vantas said, his voice a bit louder than it usually had to be.

"You make fun of my lithp again and I'll drop you you little thhit!" Sollux returned.

"Did you just called me a tit?" Karkat jeered.

Their tent opened, Sergeant Dirk Strider poking his head in. "Will you two useless bastards stop arguing and get out here? You can save your damn circle-jerk for later. We've got wounded coming in." The two soldiers stuck their tongues out at each other and stood, grabbing their rifles and leaving the tent. The smell of a scorched jungle filled the air.

Karkat and Sollux stood behind Dirk. "Thhir… The wounded… Thhat meanthh..." Sollux began before Dirk interrupted.

"Yeah Captor… We're going into the jungle for the first time, us and a helluva lot more able bodied young Americans." he paused for a moment, looking back at his two men. They both had smiles and looked fresh for a fight. Dirk returned the smile. "I don't even have to ask if you're ready for this do I?" Dirk jested.

Karkat grit his teeth in a bloodthirsty smile and raised his rifle up onto his shoulder. "Let's make 'em fuckin' pay!"

Imperial Officer Ampora stood with his hands behind his back as he stared at the burning jungle. Yet another victory under his command. But he knew the Americans would be back, very soon in fact. The same wicked smile trademark to him adorned his lips once more. "I'll be wuh-waiting…" Ampora muttered under his breath. At that moment, three very eager young Americans began their march to meet Ampora.


	5. Chapter 5 - Intermission 1

The transport plane hummed gently, a few rogue wind gusts rocking the cabin a bit. On this plane sat a group of four. Spencer "Spades" Slick, Desmond "Diamonds" Droog, Cole "Clubs" Deuce, and Harvey "Hearts" Boxcars. Friends since childhood, these four pushed small-time for the mob during the mid 30's. Unfortunately for them, when the war started they were busted during a small jewelry heist. Normally such robbers would just go to jail but, due to the nature of the crime and the luck that no one had gotten injured (much to Slick's dismay) the police force had a different idea; send them to the Army.

During their crimes they'd acquired a nickname; "The Midnight Crew". Most mobsters actually find it kinda weird and cheesy but most are a little too afraid to say so (to the Crew's face that is). Point and case...

This is The Midnight Crew, and they're hijacking this story.

Slick leaned casually against the wall of the plane, polishing his favorite switchblade. Technically one wasn't allowed to bring their own blades into bootcamp, but (as Droog puts it) Slick insisted they let him bring his favorite knife. While leadership was a bit unofficial, one would note that Slick often gave the orders. Slick knew many ways to kill a man and exercised all methods.

Droog sat next to Slick, a copy of Grey Ladies in his hands. He flipped smoothly through the pages. He didn't appear to speak much, merely sat and… Plotted? Honestly, most people aren't sure what this smooth and cunning gentleman has on his mind half the time. Droog was often recognized as the second in command, though on many occasions he'd go over Slick's head. Droog prefered more close quarters type combat, but not TOO close. He never quite enjoyed bloodying his fine attire. Such a mess.

Deuce sat next to Droog, currently twining cloth (probably for a stick of dynamite) around his fingers in a cat's cradle. He was the youngest and also smallest of the group, but boy did he know his way around a stick or two of blamo-powder. Deuce was, in short, the demolitions expert of the crew. And the most childish.

Last but not least, Boxcars. He sat next to Deuce, a mountain of a man, polishing his BAR. The thing was already sparkling clean but Boxcars always insisted on cleaning it anyways. He followed whoever gave orders and was the designated brute of the group, not to mention packing the muscle to whip the larger firearms around like they were toy guns.

Sergeant Little stood from his seat, grabbing hold of one of the leather straps hanging from the ceiling of the plane. "Alright, everyone listen up." Little began. The Crew turned their attention toward the lanky sergeant. "You are all officially apart of Operation Torch in an effort to control French Africa, and unofficially apart of Operation Green House. For those of you who were not updated on this prior to your boarding of this craft, Operation Green House is an unofficial operation made up of a small task force- that'd be us- to hunt down an ominous Nazi special operations group codenamed The Felt. The Felt consists of 15 members, each bearing a number and a respective codename. Here we go…"

Little adjusted his stance a bit and took a clipboard from who appeared the second in command. He cleared his throat and began. "Number one, is 'Itchy'. He's a fast lil' cuss and has escaped capture over eight different times. Number two is Doze. Honestly, he's a bit of a chronic screw-up. He, opposite to Itchy, has been captured multiple times. However he's excellent at resisting interrogation and is often broken out of capture before we can get information out of him. Kinda irritating, not gunna lie. Third is Trace. Trace is to our knowledge one of the more crafty ones when it comes to battlefield situations and assassinations. He's probably working very closely with the leader. Number four is Clover. Clover is also counted as one of the more wise guys. Luck and this guy are practically best buds; he's dodged multiple assassination attempts. Also, wherever Clover is, number fourteen is never far away.

"Number five is Fin. Bit of a grunt, he's more of an assistant of Trace, perhaps a bodyguard, they're never far from each other. Number six is Die. To be frank, this guy is the scariest son of a bitch listed with The Felt. He's part of Hitler's paranormal division and usually travels alone. In fact we've found he's not quite a fan of the rest of The Felt. We've got little info on him other then that. Number seven is Crowbar. He's a bit of a jack of all trades and the man is cunning like you wouldn't believe. He's got the presence of a mastermind and we predict he's the leader of The Felt. Number eight we have little information on. All we know is that it's a woman who seems to dabble in all the Felts' affairs. We predict she might be an assistant to Crowbar, but we're not sure. She's been codenamed Sn0man." Slick seemed to shuffle a bit. An ominous shifty gal… It'll be fun hunting her down, he thought.

Sergeant Little went on. "Number nine, Stitch. He can be recognized by the long scar from his right jaw up across his eye and all the way to his scalp. He's believed to be the medical professional of the Felt and has a doctorate in medicine. He's also worked in Hitler's paranormal division as well; he and Die were recruited together but don't appear to have much of a close relation. Number ten is Sawbuck, big ol' SOB. He's most likely the military instructor of The Felt, sent in to oversee military operations on the front lines. No doubt anytime you get dropped in a warzone it'll be Sawbuck seeing to your demise. Number eleven, Matchsticks. He's the getaway specialist and the… Problem fixer of The Felt. He deals with loose ends and usually coordinates rescues of Felt members in a jam. No doubt you'll be seeing him soon.

"Next up as number twelve is Eggs. Honestly, the man is a complete fool but he knows how to rally ambushes. And we know for sure he works in coherence with number thirteen, Biscuits. Biscuits has been known to work with Eggs in setting up ambushes by making sure their target stops moving in the first place. Think of the two as a part of your healthy morning breakfast 'cause you'll be eating these two up in Africa. Their presence here is confirmed as of two days ago. They've been making sure that our push through Africa is a slow one. On to number fourteen, Quarters. Quarters appears as Clover's bodyguard but sometimes the guy just kinda disappears off the face of the earth. We've noticed no other tasks with him except that he appears to be number four's lap dog, and has one helluva bite. Finally we have Cans, number fifteen. Cans is, by far, the most brutal extension of The Felt. We've gotten reports of him- and I quote- ripping the heads off of French soldiers and throwing the heads so hard they hit their target like a cannonball. He's almost always on the frontlines and is, in short, The Felt's brute. If you see him, forget about any honor you may hold because Cans will rip your goddamn head off. If you don't believe me, read the dossier."

Slick slowly raised his hand like he was going to ask a question. The sergeant knew what he was going to ask right away and responded before his hand got all the way up in the air. "I mean off Corporal Slick, O F F off." Slick slowly lowered his hand. The sergeant looked around. "You'll be briefed in more detail when we touch down. Our reports show that Eggs and Biscuits are in Africa for sure but expect to see Sawbuck once you get deeper into enemy lines, maybe even Trace and Fin. Understood?" The soldiers all gave a simultaneous "hoorah". Sergeant Little nodded. "Good. Now get your packs ready. And one more thing; I'll be your C.O. in the hunting of The Felt. If you ever find yourself contacting me via radio, use this codeword before speaking of The Felt; Mansion. If we're in person, that's a different story. You've all got your groups of four. You've all been briefed on our standard military objectives; we're hitting Oran. Welcome, officially, to the 509th Parachute Infantry Regiment. Dismissed."

Eggs stared slack jawed (it seemed he was always slack jawed) at the pair of cards in his hands, Biscuits across the table, Fin and Trace to their right and left, everyone dawning a hand of cards. Eggs moved his lazy eyes across everyones faces, looking for a slip up. Finally with sheer confidence, Eggs laid down his cards. An ace of spades, a seven of hearts, a two of hearts, some business card for a local bar, and a piece of paper with a smiley face on it. "Go fish." Eggs said in stride.

Fin slammed his hands down on the table, throwing his cards in every which direction. "FOR THE LAST TIME, WE'RE PLAYING POKER GOD DAMN IT!" he screamed.

The planes engines roared. Outside the windows of the plane, Droog could see the sun was just peering over the horizon. An African morning. The three groups of four gathered at the side of the plane. Little unlatched the small exit door and gave it a yank. The door hissed open and wind quickly flooded the plane. The Crew stood in a row; Slick, Droog, Deuce, then Boxcars, the second and third squads horizontal to them. Little grabbed a metal bar to his left and began to count down. "Three! Two! One! Go, go, go! Take that airfield!"

Slick ran forward and lept from the plane. He briefly did a front flip before steadying out and dropping down. Droog merely walked casually to the edge of the doorway and stepped one foot off, paused for a moment, then slowly leaned out of the plane (looking as smooth and nonchalant as possible, which for Desmond Droog was very possible). Deuce skipped to the edge of the door and leaped with glee into the wind. Finally, Boxcars shuffled along, BAR in arms. He cautiously approached the doorway, glancing out of it a bit. Boxcars looked a bit cautious and was showing signs of retreating. Little put his hand on Boxcars back and gave him a small push. Boxcars slowly tipped out of the plane and then tumbled out, yelling like a mad man until his screams were distant from the plane. "Alright, next squad!" Little commanded.

The Crew got semi-near each other and pulled their chutes. Once the parachutes leveled out, each prepared their weapon. Slick bore a stockless trench gun, a bandolier of shotgun shells across his chest. Droog cocked his Thompson, hugging it to his chest as he patiently fell to the earth. Deuce hugged his bazooka to his chest, even though the thing was damn-near as big as he was. And of course, Boxcars held the BAR in one hand, angrily huffing as he fell suspended by his chute.

Deuce looked around as he clutched his steel tube-o'-boom. "It's kinda dark!" he said over the low roar of wind. "How are we going to know where we're landing!"

"We're not." Droog said. "That's wh-"

"That's why we'll need to find each other afterwards." Slick interrupted. Droog slowly drooped his eyebrows. What a 'leader', Droog thought.

The fall was a long and slow one. In the distance they could make out the other two squads tasked with The Felt descending with them, and beyond them the rest of the paratroopers whose main goal was to take the airfields at Tafraoui and La Sénia.

Sawbuck sat in a chair far too small for him in the dug in beach bunker, polishing his trenchknife. The door of the room burst open, three French rebels filing in. They aimed their MAS-36s at Sawbuck, one of them barking orders in French. Sawbuck stood up slowly, towering over the three Frenchmen. The one directly in front of Sawbuck slowly ceased his orders and looked up. "Aie pitié de moi." the resistance member muttered under his breath just as Sawbuck rose his knife into the air.

Slick's boots hit the ground with a thud. He stumbled forward a bit but caught himself. His parachute began to fall to the ground when slick took the knife from his boot and slashed it through the air, cutting all the strings from the chute in one solid go. He then quickly gathered the cloth, bound it together with the cut twine, and shoved it in a bush. Slick cocked his shotgun and looked around, attempting to find where the other three had landed. Due to the plains-like terrain it wasn't too hard to do that. Tiny black blips fell all around the field surrounding the airfield. Judging by how there was no alarm, it appeared that-

Droog was just storing his parachute away when the siren in the airfield rang. German soldiers ran frantically, setting up search lights and prepping the airfields defense. Droog felt a pat on the back of his shoulder. He looked back to see Deuce and Boxcars. Where the hell was Slick?

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" Slick yelled as he ran around like an ant being squashed. The searchlight was flying every which way around him, narrowly putting him in their MG's view. He spotted a bit of a natural trench and dove for it just as the spotlight got his position. The German gunner, seeing the flash of olive go into the trench, turned his MG on the trench and…

Droog watched flashes of red as gunfire erupted, aimed at some sort of trench. Then a familiar "fuck fuck fuck" filled his ears. Slick was in that hole. "Fuck." Droog said calmly.

Eggs, Biscuits, Fin and Trace looked up from their card game as the sirens rang out. "Shit. Everyone with me, we gotta start the plane and get Sawbuck's battle plans out of here." Trace barked, sitting up quickly from the table. He drew his two Lugers and began running outside the small bunker into the open runway, then making his way for the hangers. Fin followed closely behind, Eggs and Biscuits sorta bouncing' along behind them.

Boxcars set up his BAR on a rock and began to take aim at the gunner. Droog and Deuce got ready to sprint. Boxcars began firing. The German gunner took a bullet right through the eye, the side of his head exploding into red chunks and mist, his helmet clanking off the gunner tower. Boxcars turned his gun on the spotlight operators next. Once the MG ceased firing, the paratroopers began to advance. Deuce and Droog lept into the trench with Slick. Slick was gritting his teeth, angrily clutching his shotgun. "Ready to move boss?" Droog said, cradling his Thompson. Slick nodded and Droog turned back toward Boxcars. "Reload and get over here, we're pushing!"

German pilots, engineers, and anyone who didn't want to get executed kneeled by crates and dug-ins near the trench, shooting anything they could find. The fence flashed with yellow bursts as the paratroopers charged. The Crew made their way toward the gunner tower, the large wooden structure leaving little room for anyone below it to take cover and therefore a scarcely populated entrance. Droog looked over Slick's shoulder as they ran, seeing an enemy soldier approaching the gun, pulling what was left of the last gunner off the gun.

Just as the gunner grabbed hold of the MG, Droog dropped to one knee and shouldered his Thompson. With a quick burst, Droog fired. A trail of red splotches went up from the new gunners ribs to his throat, sending a gargled scream as he tumbled off the gunner tower into the dirt with a crunch. Droog quickly rose and joined his squad mates, reaching the gate. Deuce pulled out a set of wire cutters and began weakening part of the fence for Boxcars to kick in.

Trace opened the side door of the He 111G-5, tossing a briefcase inside. "Eggs, Biscuits, inside. The pilots will take you far enough away- Make SURE no one gets these documents, do you understand?"

Biscuits stammered a bit, looking side to side in his usual stupid way. Fin walked up and grabbed Biscuits and Eggs by the collars, slamming them into the side of the plan. "He asked if you understood!" Fin barked. Eggs and Biscuits both nodded quickly.

Fin let go of them as Trace drew one of his Lugers again. "Good. Now get in the plane, we're going in to assist Sawbuck." Trace said as he turned to walk away. Fin snorted a bit before joining him. Eggs and Biscuits clammered into the He, the pilots at the front of the plane starting up the engines.

Deuce clipped the last bit of metal and stepped away. Boxcars roared and launched his foot out, busting a small part of the gate down. Droog and Slick went in first, taking cover behind some crates. Deuce cradled his bazooka and joined up behind them, Boxcars grabbing his BAR off the dirt and kneeling near them last. They watched as the rest of the paratroopers made their ways near, up, and over the fences. It was a bit more quiet on this side now. Slick looked over at Droog. "Alright smartass, where do you propose our targets are?"

Droog blinked as he glanced at the runway. He grabbed the top of Slick's head and turned it a bit to face what he was staring at. There Slick saw the easily recognizable Eggs and Biscuits clammering into a plane, two other figures Slick could only guess as to be Trace and Fin turning to part from them. Slick slowly looked back at Deuce with a grin. Deuce cocked his head to the side, a bit confused. "Why are you l…" Deuce's eyes went wide as he looked at his bazooka. A stupid grin crossed his lips as he looked back at Slick. Slick nodded.

Eggs sat clutching the briefcase as Biscuits leaned against the side of the plane, his hands shaking. The pilots began pulling onto the runway, a few stray bullets striking off the plane. This only made Biscuits shake more. The pilot adjusted his grip on the plane's controls, the He 111G-5 beginning to pick up speed. It went faster and faster, nearly to the end of the runway when the co-pilot looked back a bit to see a flash of yellow shooting toward the plane. "What ze Hell is th-"

The side of the plane exploded in a red and yellow burst of (joy) fire, the force launching the craft into the air for a short while. It glided off the runway a bit, over a few dunes and then came crashing back down into the sand, scarcely hidden from view.

Slick could see the flicker. "Excellent shot Deuce! You and Droog go and clean up that mess, Boxcars and I are going to chase down Fin and Trace." Droog nodded, Deuce reloading the bazooka. Boxcars changed the magazine on his Bar, Droog, his Thompson. Reloaded, the Crew parted. There were no need for goodbyes.

Slick and Boxcars crossed the runway, ignoring the few pot shots taken at them. "Look! They're getting away!" Boxcars boomed, aiming his finger toward the horizon where Slick could just make out the shape of a jeep, rocketing down the dirt path.

Slick bore his teeth, looking around for a vehicle. He saw another jeep near the fence. "Let's take that one, I'm drivin'!" Slick said, running up to the jeep. Boxcars jogged behind but paused when a potshot whizzed close enough to his neck so that he could feel the heat. Boxcars made a low grumble and turned toward the two Germans taking shots from behind a few crates. Boxcars leveled the BAR at his hip, facing it toward them. They tried to get up and run but, to their dismay, were too late. The BAR rang out, hot metal tearing through the two soldiers bodies, splotches of red flying through the air and splattering the ground before the two hit the ground with a tumbling thud. Boxcars lifted the barrel of the gun up a bit, huffing, then moving back to Slick's side.

Droog moved across the dark open plains, Thompson shoulder and aimed forward at the top of the dune. Deuce followed behind, bazooka cradled in his arms. The sun was just starting to spread some light on these African plains. "You stay at the top of the hill and aim that big boom-can at the plane. I'll head in, mop up any survivors, grab what ever intelligence I can scavenge and regroup with you." Droog said professionally. Deuce made a confirming "mhm" in response.

Droog got to the top of the hill and quickly dropped prone. The plane's nose was buried in the dirt, it's tail sticking up a good few feet into the air. Fire and debris was scattered everywhere, the ground scorched. No bodies appeared to of made it outside of the plane. Satisfied, Droog stood and made a tactical approach to the door of the plane while Deuce set up his bazooka on the top of the crater. Just as Droog was approaching the door it flew open. The pilot, covered in soot and blood, hung out the side aiming his Luger point-blank at Droog's head.

Droog reacted quickly, sending his Thompson up at the mans extended arm. The metal and wood hit the pilot's forearm, sending it into the side of the plane with a sickening crack, the Luger flying off onto the other side of the tail. The pilot screamed as he clung to the doorway. Droog took a step back and brought the Thompson to his hip, the barrel leveled with the screaming pilot. Droog held the trigger, blazing gunfire at the man. The pilot was thrown back into the door hinge, his shoulders and head jerking with each .45 that entered his chest. After a good 15 shots Droog ceased, the pilot slump out of the plane and tumbling face first into the sand.

Droog brought the Thompson up a bit, blowing the smoke from the barrel. Droog grabbed the pilots boot, throwing it outside of the doorway before climbing in himself. Oh god, the smell. Droog covered his mouth with one arm, holding the machine gun with the other. The scorched black interior was coated with a maroon and crusted substance Droog could recognize (by sight and by smell) as blood. However, a perfectly intact head lay on the floor, it's face still gawking a dumb expression. Biscuits. Droog couldn't help grinning a bit. The poor son of a bitch was sitting right up against where Deuce's bazooka hit. Probably didn't even feel a thing. Droog shimmied up to the cockpit. The copilot was skewed against the broken glass, a rather large piece impaled through his throat. Well, no way he was coming back from-

"Droog!" Deuce's voice rang out. "Droog come out here, quick!"

The jeep hit each clump of sand and rock with force, the axial squeaking and squealing, but the thing held together like the blows were nothing. "Gotta love German engineering!" Slick hollered as he sped after Trace and Fin's jeep. With only 5 miles between Oran and the runway, the city was already within sight, the echoing explosions and pillars of smoke in the distance obviously signaling that the beach assault was underway.

Boxcars was leaned against the dashboard, his BAR extended. As they made their way to a more paved road, more and more of the shots would actually hit the jeep instead of veering off into the desert.

Fin grunted as Trace drove. He turned in his seat to aim back at Slick and Boxcars, MP40 in hands. "Shit, duck!" Slick said. The two lowered their heads below the dash as a few bursts erupted from Fin's gun. The right rear view mirror exploded off the side of the car, a few more bullets smashing through the windows, the remainder hissing by like bursts of death. Boxcars roared angrily and rose up above the dash while Fin began to reload, firing off the last three rounds in his BAR.

The first shot hit Fin in the arm, tearing a chunk of flesh off it and launching him into the dashboard, the MP40 flying out of his hands and outside the jeep. The next two went through the windshield and struck the engine. There was a loud sputter. Trace grit his sharp teeth, staring at the smoke now rising from the engine. "Damn it, damn it! Fin are you ok!?" Trace yelled.

Fin rose a bit, holding what was left of his right bicep. "We're going to have to stop… And fight these lucky grunts…" Fin muttered up at Trace. With a sigh, Trace nodded. He jerked the wheel to the right and quickly dug the jeep off the road and into a small dune, creating a bit more cover for them. Trace kicked open his door and grabbed Fin by the collar, dragging him out, Fin yelling and snapping in pain.

"Shit, they're pulling over!" Slick said as he peeled his own vehicle off the road, turning it so it's broadside faced Fin and Trace's car. Boxcars opened the door and fired a few more fresh shots from the BAR to keep Fin and Trace down while Slick slid over the hood. Trace tipped a bit from his cover to fire a few shots at Boxcars. One shot knicked the top of his helmet, sending it flying off the top of his head. Boxcars threw himself down into the car's cover, breathing heavily.

Trace looked over at Fin as he returned to his own cover. "How are you holding up my friend?" Trace asked, leaning out of cover to fire in the general direction of Slick.

Fin grit his teeth, sticking his finger in the bullet wound for a moment, only seeming to hiss a bit at the pain it generated. "It's through and through," Fin began. "I can fight. Shall we 'shark' them?"

Trace recognized the term. The two and their odd obsession with sharks and similar predatory marine life led them to rename the tactic of "flanking" as "sharking", a maneuver sharks would often do when attempting to corner and/or confuse their prey. Trace quickly turned as Slick was just rising, emptying his magazine in Slick's general direction, forcing him back down into cover. Trace emptied the magazine out of his gun and slid a fresh one in, cocking the Luger. He drew his spare side arm and offered it to Fin. "We shall not die today by some American grunts!"

"I heard that!" Slick barked, turning from his cover for a moment to fire a burst from his shotgun at the jeep.

Droog ducked under the lifted tail of the plane to see what Deuce had been hollering about. After trailing Deuce's gaping eyes Droog finally found the blood trail. It went from the hole in the plane, up the crater and over it. Droog walked belong side it, popping the clip on his Thompson out whilst doing so. Felt like it had another good 10 or so rounds left. He popped it back in and began to step up the hill. Finally reaching the top he looked down into another dune opposite the plane landed in. There he saw Eggs, dragging him self across the sand, briefcase in hand, bleeding like a stuck pig.

Trace and Fin charged from opposite sides of the jeep. Every time Boxcars or Slick tried to rise up and take them out while they were in the open, Trace's Luger would give them a brief reminder of their mortality. Slick and Boxcars sat back-to-back, their guns poised to shoot once Trace or Fin came into view. There was a brief moment of silence before Trace came sliding over the hood. Slick tried to raise his shotgun up to aim but Trace moved too quickly, his boot finding it's jaw across Slick's mouth. Boxcars tried to turn but Fin rounded just as fast, launching himself at Boxcars, knocking the BAR out of his hands and under the jeep.

Slick rubbed his cheek as Trace stood over him, aiming his Luger down at Slick's head. As Trace pulled the trigger, Slick sweeped his leg across the sand into Trace's ankle. The pistol's bullet narrowly missed Slick's head as Trace fell into the ground. Slick scrambled to his knees and went to pounce on Trace. As he lept Trace pulled his trigger again; a hot and burning pain filled Slick's left shoulder but he didn't seem to mind much. Slick threw himself at the Luger, knocking it far away, before moving to sit on top of Trace.

Meanwhile, Boxcars held Fin's arms by their wrists, keeping the fierce assassin at bay. The two struggled fruitlessly for a bit until Fin positioned himself a bit next to Boxcars and began kneeing him in the ribs. With each blow Boxcars felt his ribs cracking and loosening. With a roar Boxcars let go of Fin's wrists and grabbed his throat, slamming his head with a good metallic conk into the jeep. The rocked Fin held his head in his hands as Boxcars slid his legs from under Fin, launching them back into Fin's chest, sending the Felt flying off into the sand. Boxcars got to his feet as Fin did and began to charge.

Droog walked smoothly and calmly up to Eggs as Deuce took position on the top of the small hill behind him. Eggs glanced back to see Droog and a look of panic ensued across his blood-splattered face. He began to crawl faster and faster. Droog spent little energy keeping with Eggs' pace. After a short chase, Droog approached Eggs side and send his boot hard into Eggs' ribs. The young Nazi yelped in pain and rolled over on his back, arms wrapped tight around his sides, knees recoiling up into the air a bit. The briefcase lay in the sand next to him.

Droog stood over Eggs', staring down at him with a stoic look, Thompson relaxed in his arms. Eggs' coughed loudly as he regained the air Droog's boot had sent out of him. After a brief fit, he spoke. "Please! No kill me!" Eggs' pleaded. His English must not of been all that good. "I have money, Felt have money! You hunt Felt right? Let Eggs go, or take prisoner! Take briefcase, it is all yours! Pl-"

Eggs' pleading was abruptly ended by ten .45 rounds; five into his chest, one into his throat, two into his head, and two final shots into his belly. Eggs lay across the sand, blood splattered across his corpse. Droog avoided the maroon pool making it's way around the young Kraut, reaching over to grab the briefcase. Secured, Droog calmly released the magazine from the M1 Thompson, letting it fall to the sand, as he grabbed another from his pouch. He slid it into the gun, cocking a fresh round in. Deuce watched from the ridge, staring in awe.

Droog made his way up the hill and relaxed a hand on Deuce's shoulder. "Let's go find Slick." he said emotionlessly.

Slick screamed as he rose Trace into the air by his shirt, charging and slamming the man into the hood of the jeep. Trace groaned in protest as Slick held him against the hood. Trace brought his knee under Slick's ribs, knocking the wind out of him. With the loosened grip, Trace jumped up and rocketed his fist across Slick's jaw, sending the American into the dirt. Trace drew a knife from his belt; it bore a golden eagle on the hilt of the knife, the blade's edges a dagger in style, 5 inches of steel.

Boxcars and Fin stood with their fists up, walking in a circle, waiting for the other to punch. Finally Boxcars threw his arm at Fin's head, Fin ducking under the blow to send a good punch into Boxcars stomach. Boxcars groaned and launched his elbow down into Fin while he was still near, his elbow cracking into Fin's spine. Fin fell face first into the sand, sprawling and twitching. Boxcars shuffled over and placed his boot on the back of Fin's neck. Fin kicked and clawed at the sand, trying to move away. With one swift twist of his boot, the vertebrae in Fin's neck twisted out of place with a subtle and muffled pop.

Slick held Trace's wrists, the eagle crested blade hovering over his chest. The two made short gaks and grunts, an eerie silence otherwise hovering around them as Slick forced with all his strength to avoid the steel from puncturing his heart. "It is… Time for you to die… Spencer 'Spades'... Slick… Born in Sicily… Raised in Queens…" Trace said as he grinned widely.

Rage consumed Slick as the Nazi he'd never met before now named off personal information about him. They fucking had him. Slick roared as he pulled the blade right. It cut through Slick's arm a bit but he didn't seem to care. With the blade now in the sand, Slick sent a strong jab into Trace's throat. The kraut began to gag, removing his hands from the blade to hold his Adam's apple. Slick grabbed Trace's collar and threw him into the sand beside him, crawling on his lap as Trace had done seconds before. Trace used one free hand to try and grab and claw at Slick's throat to no avail as Slick grabbed the knife from the sand. Slick raised the blade into the air and brought it down.

"Slick." Stab, stab, stab, stab. "Slick, he's dead." Stab, stab, stab, stab. "Spencer." Stab, stab, stab, stab. Boxcars stood behind and watched as Slick stabbed Trace repeatedly, blood spraying in every direction, the eagle crested knife practically painted red at this point. Trace had died after the first few stabs. Slick didn't seem to notice. And if he did, didn't care. "Slick." Boxcars sighed.

Droog saw the flipped jeeps, as well as Boxcars standing over something. Droog slowed the jeep to the side of the road and parked it. "Oh look, Slick is trying to give that man CPR!" Deuce said cheerfully.

Droog looked a bit more closely, slowly bringing his forefinger and thumb to the bridge of his nose. "That's… Deuce, just get out and tell them we're ready to go."

Sawbuck climbed into the back of a transport truck, blood splattered across his shirt. The Nazi sitting across from him looked in awe from under his helmet. "S… Sir?" he muttered.

Sawbuck looked down at the soldier, practically casting a shadow over him. "Tell the driver I am ready to evacuate." The young soldier pushed his helmet up and nodded nervously as he clammered to the window between the back of the truck and the drivers cabin.

The invasion force took Oran in stride. Slick returned to the airfields where the other two squads tasked with finding The Felt were ready for their report and had already bagged what was left of Eggs and Biscuits. Droog sat down at the radio, bringing it up to his ear. Everyone else gathered behind him, smiles wide around, Boxcars already busting a crate of booze open. Droog adjusted his collar a bit, pausing for effect. "Mansion."


End file.
